Yesterday at the grocery store, I could see the Milky Way Dark candy bars moving in their wrappers — inhaling and exhaling, like nightmare appliances in a David Cronenberg movie.
While getting my haircut at Maurice’s Barber Shop, I could hear the hand-dipped truffles next door at Nandy’s Candy. Over the sound of the electric shears, I could discern a faint tapping sound: little lumps of chocolate and fat and sugar smacking the inside of the glass cases, desperate to escape.
The Krispy Kreme sign beckons to me; its blood-red neon sizzles and sparks. The store is more than three miles from our condo. Even so, while taking Chelsea on her bedtime walk, I could see that crimson beacon punctuating the sky like a sharp, rigid finger of pure desire: Hot. Fresh. Now!
Creamy frozen coffee drinks. Slabs of yellow cake. Recipes for apple dumplings dusted with cinnamon and brown sugar. Those periwinkle-colored, star-shaped cookies at that bakery on North State Street. The Mocha-Choka Yaya “concretes” at Bop’s Frozen Custard.
Today does not begin with S.
Father, forgive me.
I’m weak.
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